The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  Cal and I didn’t enthusiastically jump at the idea. That didn’t stop Charles for looking up the agent’s number and dialing. He listened and instead of talking to someone or leaving a message, Charles hit End Call and shook his head.

  “What?” Cal asked.

  Charles looked at the phone. “Machine said the boy’s message machine’s full.”

  Cal asked, “What do we do now?”

  “Head to his house, knock, and say, Surprise, we caught you.”

  It was nearing my bedtime and I suggested we save the surprise for tomorrow.

  Charles said, “Suppose we can wait.” Cal said, “Halleluiah!” It was after ten when we traipsed in the apartment. Heather wasn’t there but had left a note on the table telling us not to wait up.

  I was exhausted and it didn’t take a note for me to not wait up. I did wonder what tomorrow and a trip to Kevin Starr’s house would bring.

  8

  The day started much like yesterday. Charles was in the kitchen attempting to fix breakfast. This time it was toast and scrambled eggs. I knew it was Charles’s toast because I was familiar with the aroma of burnt bread as it drifted through the apartment. Also, as was the case yesterday, Heather was nowhere to be seen and her bedroom door was closed.

  I looked at the clump of eggs in the skillet. “Heather teach you to do that?”

  “Tried to teach me how to fix them over easy. I taught myself that when they plop out of the shell all a mess, I can slush them around and say they were supposed to be scrambled.”

  “Your secret’s good with me.” I scraped the blackened coating off the toast. “Heather sleeping in?”

  Charles glanced at the bedroom door and back at the skillet. “Yeah. Don’t know when she got in this morning. Didn’t hear a thing.” He again looked at the door. “Chris, I’m worried about her. She’s moping around and on the verge of tears more often. Her temper’s getting as short as a speck of dust.”

  “Think she’s worried her dreams will never be more than dreams?”

  Charles scraped the eggs on two plates, looked at his bedroom door and at the closed door to Cal and my room, and put the plates on the table. “Guess it’s you and me feasting alone.”

  “There loss,” I said as I wondered how Heather and Cal would survive without burnt toast and over-scrambled eggs.

  “Think it’s more about Kevin Starr than her dreams. She’s growing a hate for that man, I’m afraid.”

  I had learned Charles’s answers could come any time after a question. He’d gone days before getting around to the answer. Yet, if he asked something and the response didn’t come before a breath could be taken, he’d be asking again.

  “She’s a lot like you,” I said. “She tries to like everyone and looks for the good in the worst folks.”

  Charles took a bite of toast. “Yuck.” He dropped it on his plate. “President Garfield said, ‘I am a poor hater.’ He and I agree. Heather used to be, now I’m afraid she’s getting pretty good at hating.”

  “What’s that about me, Chucky?” Heather’s sleepy voice asked as she opened the door.

  She had a smile on her face and wore a long red, white, and blue striped nightgown that looked like an American flag. She pecked Charles on the forehead.

  “Nothing, sweetie. We were wondering if you got enough sleep.”

  She looked at his plate. “See you were playing Emeril LaChuckie again.”

  LaChuckie said, “Want me to fix you some?”

  “Not hungry. Had some food late. What are we doing today, fellas?”

  For whatever reason, Heather appeared to be either over or taking a break from hating and being depressed. I didn’t know if Charles had wanted her to go with us to find Starr, I deferred to him.

  “Umm, Cal wanted to see Kevin Starr since he didn’t get a chance to talk to him on Folly or at the Bluebird. They have a lot in common, being they’re both in the music business.”

  Heather said, “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” Charles continued. “Cal thought it’d be good to see if Starr was at home where they could talk without being interrupted.”

  “I’ll be back,” I said. “Got to get something out of the bedroom.” I neglected to say I had to get to Cal before he talked to Heather so he’d know who he wanted to see today, along with why, and where. “Don’t eat all my breakfast, Heather.”

  She turned up her nose at the eggs.

  I shook Cal awake, told him his plans, and returned to the kitchen and my one-star breakfast.

  An hour later, we were following the car’s automated GPS directions across the Cumberland River and six miles away from the apartment through the East Nashville section of the county. Charles had finagled Starr’s home address from someone he had met at one of Heather’s open-mic appearances. Signs on a building indicated we had reached Five Points where, you guessed it, five roads converged. The navigation system led us through the confusing intersection and had us turn right at Three Crow Bar. From the looks of the small, well-maintained homes, East Nashville and Five Points was made up of a mix of artsy, and eclectic residents. Several of the houses were colorfully painted, a few had large sculptures in the yard.

  “Cute as a cricket,” Heather chirped, as she pointed to a yellow, converted VW minibus that was home to a hotdog stand named I Dream of Weenie. It wasn’t open or Heather would have made us stop for lunch and would have forgotten about our destination. The mechanized voice from the navigation system wasn’t impressed by I Dream of Weenie and led us another block before announcing: “You have reached your destination.” A decorative wrought-iron gate greeted us in front of a light-green bungalow. It was situated on a narrow, deep lot. A concrete-block building was at the back of the lot with a swing set between the structures. The house and its surroundings were idyllic and looked like a set for a Hallmark movie. It was the last place I would expect to find a con artist.

  Charles knocked four times and I was about to think we wouldn’t be finding a con-artist, or anyone else at home. Heather had walked around the side of the house and returned and waved for us. We followed her toward the building where I heard a whooshing noise and what sounded like steel striking steel.

  Charles, who’d never feared to tread most anywhere, looked in the open door. The rest of us stood behind him.

  “Yo, hello!” he yelled over the loud whooshing. Heat rolled out the entry, adding to the already hot morning.

  The hammering stopped and Charles stepped back. We were greeted by an attractive, petite woman. She was no more than five-foot-two, in her thirties, had her hair tied in a bun and wore a black, leather blacksmith apron over jeans and a white T-shirt. Black streaks mixing with perspiration covered part of her face. She had an oversized ball-peen hammer in her leather-gloved hand, and if she hadn’t been so short and attractive would have looked like someone I wouldn’t want to meet in a haunted house.

  “May I help you?” she said in a throaty voice. “We didn’t have an appointment, did we?”

  Charles asked, “Are you Mrs. Starr?”

  She glanced at the rest of us; her gloved hand tightly gripped the hammer. “Yes. Again, may I help you?”

  I didn’t blame her for being leery of four strangers at her door, particularly when one was tall and wore a Stetson, two others wore tan Tilley’s, and the fourth person had on a yellow dress brighter than a caution light.

  I stepped beside Charles. “Pardon our rudeness, let me introduce everyone.” I proceeded to tell her who we were and that Heather was one of her husband’s clients.

  Mrs. Starr removed her leather glove, set the hammer on the ground, told us to call her Sandy, and shook hands. She said she was a blacksmith and sculptor and asked us to join her on the porch after saying the studio was too hot for normal humans.

  “I’ve never met a blacksmith,” Charles said, a statement most of us could make, as Sandy pointed to chairs on the porch. The porch was shaded by the house and more comfortable than her studio or standing in the sun. Nea
t and quaint were the words that kept coming to mind. Again, not the home of a con artist.

  Cal asked, “What kind of blacksmithin’ do you do?”

  Sandy pointed at a medal table with a glass top in the corner of the porch. Its legs were wrapped in decorative, metal vines with leaves on them, and a framed photo with three children posed in white shirts and huge smiles sat on the glass top.

  “That kind of stuff. Do mainly commission work for high-end builders. Stair railings and such, and tables for designers.”

  Heather pointed at the photo. “Them your youngins?”

  Sandy looked at the photo. “Getting older by the day. Steve, Kevin Jr., and Dolly; four, five, and seven.”

  Heather said, “Cute as crickets.”

  I wondered what Sandy would have thought if she knew Heather had said the same thing about the hotdog stand.

  Sandy smiled. “Thanks. I don’t suppose you came out here to see what I make back there.” She nodded toward her studio. “Or to hear about the kids.”

  Heather leaned forward in her chair ready to respond. Charles beat her to it. “No, but it was interesting hearing about your work, and your kids are adorable.”

  Sandy nodded. “But?”

  Charles said, “We were looking for Kevin. Heather was performing a couple of nights ago at the Bluebird and Kevin was supposed to be there and was going to talk to us about her career. We were worried when he didn’t show and his phone message machine’s full up.”

  Sandy’s smile faded. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That must be why I got the other calls.”

  Charles tilted his head to the side. “Other calls?”

  “Yes, two women called the last couple of days asking for Kevin. It was strange because all his clients have his cell number and he doesn’t give out our home phone. Maybe he was supposed to meet them too. I asked if I could take a message and they said no.”

  “Did you get their names?” I asked.

  “They didn’t give them. One sounded young and the other older, about your age, Heather.”

  Charles asked, “Did you tell your husband?”

  Sandy looked at her studio and at the floor. “No. He’s, umm, been away for a few days and I haven’t had a chance to tell him.”

  “Oh,” Charles said. “Where is he?”

  Sandy hesitated and looked at the porch floor. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen him since Sunday morning. I was working on a project for a builder in Franklin and had to get it done by Monday. The kids are with my parents over in Hendersonville, and to be honest, I didn’t miss Kevin until that night.”

  Charles said, “Does he leave often?”

  Sandy tried to smile. “There’s a lot of travel with his business. Sometimes he has to go to Memphis, or up to Kentucky, and North and South Carolina to meet with potential clients and other music execs. It’s a demanding business. I’d rather be pounding steel.” She nodded toward the outbuilding.

  “He doesn’t tell you where he goes?” I said.

  “I get caught up in my work and block out everything but the kids. He tells me, but it’s in one ear, out the other.” She chuckled. “He usually calls a couple of times when he’s on the road.”

  “Not this time?” I said.

  Sandy continued to look at the floor. “No. You don’t even know me and I don’t want to burden you, but I’m worried. It’s not like him to be gone three days without calling.”

  Cal asked, “Did he take a holdall with him?”

  “A what?” Sandy asked.

  Good question, I thought.

  Cal said, “Suitcase.”

  “Oh, no. He keeps a travel bag in his car. Says he has to leave from downtown sometimes and doesn’t want to have to come out here to pack.”

  “Tell you what,” Charles said. “Let me give you my number. Give me a holler when you hear from him. In the meantime, we’ll check around. We’ll find him.”

  Sandy took the number, said she’d call Charles when she heard from him, and said she was sorry we missed her husband.

  “Check around. We’ll find him,” I parroted Charles as we piled in the car.

  Charles looked back at the Starr house. “Maybe the boy’s not quite the rip-off, con man I thought he was. Nice wife, cute as cricket kids, maybe the boy’s in trouble. Who wouldn’t call them if everything was okay?”

  “Now Chuckie,” Heather said. “It’s none of our business.”

  That’d never stopped Charles before. It wouldn’t now.

  9

  On the drive to town, Charles, Cal, and I talked about where we could look for Starr. After ten red traffic lights, and a near collision with a garbage truck, we didn’t have any more idea where to find him than we did finding an Eskimo in Nashville. Heather proved to be the smartest person in the car; she slept the entire trip.

  “Got an idea,” Cal said as he climbed the stairs with the aid of the handrail. “Got another buddy here, name’s Vern Watson. I’ll catch my breath, pop open a beer, and give him a holler.”

  That meant I’d have to find Vern Watson’s number.

  Heather declined a beer and said her headache had returned and she was going to catch more shuteye. The only name close to Vern Watson that directory assistance knew about was V. Watson, who turned out to be a woman named Veronica who worked at a Nashville bank and had never heard of Cal’s friend.

  “Got another idea,” Cal said. “Vern’s a retired steel guitar player, was in the Opry house band for a spell. The boy played steel guitar and the ponies—better at the guitar. I’ll call the union and see if they still have his card.”

  That meant another number to find for my connected friend. The offices were closed so Cal would have to wait until morning. None of us wanted to, or had the energy to wander out, so we spent a couple of hours staring at the walls before heading to bed.

  Cal managed to get a real person on the phone the next morning. The woman he talked to was helpful—sort of. Vern Watson was no longer in the musician’s union; no longer a member because he’d gone to the great recording studio in the sky seven years ago. I could almost see the wheels turning in Charles’s head where he was going to tell Cal that learning anything from Watson was a dead end.

  A knock on the door prevented Charles from making the tasteless joke.

  Cal was nearest to the door, opened it, and was greeted by two dour-faced men, one tall at around six-foot three, the other a half foot shorter, although he carried about the same weight except much of it drooped over his belt. Both wore dress slacks, wrinkled blazers, and cheap-looking ties. They weren’t starving musicians.

  “I’m Detective Lawrence,” the tall one said. “This is Detective Rogers.” Lawrence looked at a note in his hand. “Is this where Eileen Gordon Smith lives?”

  “You’ve got the wrong crib,” Cal said. “No Eileen—”

  Charles stepped in front of Cal. “She lives here. Why?”

  The detectives looked at each other and then Lawrence glared at Cal. “Need to get your story straight, cowboy.”

  Cal still had on his Stetson and started to speak.

  “Cal,” Charles said, “It’s Heather’s name. She stopped using it a few years back when she wanted to reinvent herself.”

  The shorter, and younger detective, held his hand between Charles and Cal. “Is Ms. Smith here?”

  Charles turned to the detective. “Heather—Eileen—isn’t up yet. Why?”

  Lawrence looked at his watch. “Please get her. May we come in? You don't want us standing out here talking to her.”

  I didn’t know why they were here, yet I doubted we wanted them talking to her in the hall or anywhere else. Charles opened the bedroom door and whispered something. A long minute later Heather walked in, blinked a couple of times, and wiped her eyes. Charles told her the two detectives wanted to talk to her and Detective Lawrence took the lead and introduced himself and his partner. Lawrence asked if she had a few minutes to talk. It was apparent she didn’t have a choice. Heather nodded and kept gl
ancing over at Charles. Lawrence suggested that he, his partner, and Heather have seats in the living room and the rest of us “might be more comfortable in the kitchen.” Again, it wasn’t a suggestion, and Cal, Charles, and I moved to the kitchen and gathered around the table.

  Cal removed his Stetson and set in on the table and whispered to Charles, “What’s going on?”

  Charles looked at the door leading to the living room and shrugged.

  There were many drawbacks to the tiny size of the apartment. One plus became apparent when we heard everything being said in the other room. Charles’s chair was farthest from the living room and he scooted it around the table to be closer.

  “Ms. Smith,” Detective Lawrence said, “where were you Monday night?”

  “I go by Heather Lee now. Think you could call me that?”

  “But you are the Eileen Gordon Smith, in the system for grand theft auto?” Detective Rogers said.

  Heather sighed. “It was a long time ago, and all I did was borrow my ex-boyfriend’s car and it wasn’t my fault that a deer ran across the road and I tried to miss it and ended up in the river. The car didn’t even sink. The ex got himself pissed and called the cops and—”

  “Enough,” Lawrence interrupted. “The point is you are Ms. Smith.”

  “Umm, yes.”

  Cal leaned close to Charles. “You knew that?”

  “Sure.”

  Cal turned to me and held out his hand. “You too?”

  I whispered, “Yes. She likes telling that story and that she changed her name.”

  Cal looked at the ceiling. “I could’ve written a song about it.”

  “Shh,” Charles whispered. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “To my question, Ms. Smith—Heather. Where were you Monday night?”

  “That’s easy. I was singing at the Bluebird Cafe. I’m a country singer and it was open-mic night. My friends in there were with me.”